


'Cause Love's Such an Old Fashioned Word

by isangelousdenim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Castiel and Dean Winchester Being Idiots, Cigarettes, Cover Art, Dungeons & Dragons References, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, NSFW Art, Non-Con/Rape Outside of Castiel/Dean Winchester, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Porn Watching, Semi-Public Sex, Skull Fucking, Smut, The '80s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-05-12 16:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19232503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isangelousdenim/pseuds/isangelousdenim
Summary: It's the '80s and Dean Winchester is horny.With that in mind, and his girlfriend not exactly lending a helping hand, Dean decides to go to the adult video store downtown. He heard about it from a group of guys at the Roadhouse that also mentioned a booth in the back that shows the movies for a cover charge.When Dean finally works up the courage to go to the store, he's astounded to find that he's more interested in the dark-haired employee than the actual porno—But, as previously mentioned, it's the '80s. So, his attraction is kind of a problem. Well, itwouldbe, but Dean's too busy getting his brains sucked out through his dick to really notice.





	1. Make Believe I'm Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bumocusal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumocusal/gifts).



> This is my first ever fan fiction. I hope it's okay because I usually just stick to art; which I also did for this story.
> 
> Reminder, this is set in the '80s. . . so please don't expect a wholesome depiction of sexual exploration or even healthy queer relationships. Read the tags carefully and then, if you're easily triggered, please read the extra content warning in the endnotes. It's important to me that everyone who reads this doesn't feel like shit or otherwise uncomfortable with the content.
> 
> Stay golden, y'all.

 Dean wasn’t the regular customer.

He had a girlfriend. Lydia was a nice woman and he sure did get his fill-in thanks to her—or at least, he’d tell her that every night before rubbing one out in their one-by-one pink-tiled shower.

So, really, he wasn’t some loner type with perverted thoughts. And besides, going once wasn't some carnal grody-to-the-max _sinful_ thing that'd damn him to Hell. A lot of the guys at Harvelle's talked about it, too; good guys that had weathered wedding rings on their fingers and pictures of pigtailed daughters in their wallets. Dean would chug his beer, listening in on the escapades, and wondering if he should go peruse. Just once. 

Pushing into the hole-in-the-wall store, located in the back of the main street and disguised as a normal movie rental store, Dean scanned every inch of the place. It wasn't horribly grotesque like he'd imagined. All along the walls, from floor to ceiling, were popular VHS tapes to rent. In the middle were even more movies, in these feeble spray-painted metal white containers, kind of like shopping buggies but permanently screwed into the ground. Off to the side was a huge counter, littered with all types of vinyl and some 8-tracks that could also be rented out, a short sandy-haired blond guy was situated behind the register.

The guy, his nametag said Gabe, grinned when he spotted him.

"Well, s'not every day we get a Clydesdale  _hunk_ in here."

Dean flushed all the way up to his jaw. "What’s your damage, dipstick?"

"Nothing! You're just aren't our regular customer," Gabe said without any real judgment. "You looking for Dirty Harry or _dirty_  and  _hairy_?"

"Um," Dean pressed his hands into his pockets, flustered. Maybe he shouldn't have come. He made himself answer, "The second one."

"Dope-o-rama," Gabe nodded, reaching down to rummage in a drawer below the counter. He came back up with a key and a box of blacked out VHS tapes. Dean blinked at some of the raunchy names. "The showing room is behind me. You're lucky—Cassie just finished mopping up in there. The last guy was a stud, let me tell ya'. Anyway, pick whichever one tickles your fancy and I'll get you rung up." 

He cleared his throat, reaching into the box and flinching at his options: "Deep Throat", "The Devil in Miss Jones", "Café Flesh", "Candy Stripers", "Kansas City Trucking Co."—He nearly collapsed at the pictures on that one, recognizing exactly what it was with a sinking stomach; there was _queer_  porn in the box. Pulling out a random non-gay one ("Pretty Peaches" with a picture of a short-haired woman posing delicately on the front) Dean dragged out his wallet and waited for Gabe to stop watching him. The guy looked so amused. Like Dean's aversion to the taboo porno was entertainingly silly.

"Okay," He said, clutching the VHS in one hand and his billfold in the other. "Let's get this show on the road."

"Cool beans," Gabe crossed his arms. "That'll be three bucks—and an extra half-a-dollar if you want a squirt of lotion."

Handing over the three Washington's, he said, "No thanks." He'd just lick his hand.

Gabe handed him the key, "Go ahead, Hoss. Cassie'll come and get you set up in a few."

Dean exhaled, pocketing his wallet and taking the gold key. He walked slowly behind the register, hesitating a second with the key in the lock, before opening the dreaded door and entering the showing studio. Much like the outer room, it wasn't grotesque. It was plain, with cream white walls and tiled flooring.

Dean shuddered to think of carpet in the tiny room.

He saw the small wooden seat, placed in front of a 14-inch box TV, with a couple of tissue boxes and a wet washcloth laid out on the sistering table. There was a plastic slip covering over the chair, like something you'd see at a doctor's office. Dean wondered if this _Cassie_ put new plastic down for each new customer? He fought off the more nasty thoughts (cum stained on the wood, seeped into each grain, rubbing off on him when he sat down). He hadn't come here to be disgusted. He was here to get off.

Sitting down, he placed the key on the hutch the TV was on, leaning back and waiting for Cassie to come in and turn on the VCR. Dean knew how to operate the thing—although he was a little technologically challenged—still, he figured he should heed Gabe's instructions and do everything by the book. Maybe his session was timed and Cassie needed to fire the starting shot by turning on the VCR?

Dean rubbed his moist palms on his pant legs. At the rate he was sweating, he wouldn't need to lick his hand soon. There was a thumping sound outside the room before a quick knock rattled the door against its wobbly hinges.

"Yeah?" Dean squeaked. Fuck. He pounded his chest. "I, uh, you can come in."

The door creaked open and a dark-haired man poked his head in. "Are you ready for your video?"

Dean licked the front of his teeth. "Born ready."

"We don't show movies to babies," The man said with an inscrutable face.

"Whatever you say, Space Cadet." Dean didn't really get the dorky humor—that's what deadpan sarcasm was, right?

"I'm not associated with Star Wars." The Harison Ford or Reagan variant?

Dean shook his head. "Are you juiced or something? Just say no, yuppie."

"My name is Castiel." Castiel walked over to the VCR, picking up the tape, pressing the on-button, and then sliding the VHS into the slot. Dean watched as the screen buzzed to life, a horrible static sound emitting from the speakers before Castiel pressed the rewind button. Sitting in silence, only the blurry sight of the TV screen between them, Castiel chose to speak, "I forgot to rewind this one after its last viewing. We have to wait until it's completely rewound. Is that okay?"

Dean nodded. "I'm down."

And so they waited in silence. 

"When the video starts, there might be fuzziness or some snowy static on the screen," Castiel broke the stillness with the captivating catastrophe that was his voice. It was intense and gravelly, making Dean feel hot under his collar. "It happens sometimes with the tapes that haven't been recently rethreaded. It could obstruct your viewing. Would you like me to sit in for a few minutes, just to make sure it doesn't happen?"

Dean nodded again, less assured with a firmly fastened mouth. If he talked, he was sure he'd say something fucking wild.

And so, the piercing silence returned. 

Finally, the video stopped rewinding, clicking noisily in the VCR before auto-playing from the beginning. Castiel didn't move from his spot beside Dean's chair. Dean tried to focus on the opening shots of the porno but all he could concentrate on was Castiel's looming figure and the small wafts of cologne and natural musk. Looking at the moving screen, he felt his eyes twitch in their sockets, wanting so badly to just turn and stare at the imposing man only breaths away.

Castiel _was_  handsome. Dean couldn't have missed the roguishly shaved 5 o' clock shadow, brilliant blue eyes so comely and penetrating, and the tuffs of brunette hair that look more sexed than any video they could endeavor to show here—but alongside the obvious, Castiel had a well-defined body. It was hard to immediately notice through the huge trenchcoat and boxy suit, but Dean appreciated a good pair of thick thighs. He was kind of a connoisseur of legs and asses, as it were. So, it wasn't like Castiel was easy to ignore. Even if he _was_ a guy. 

The woman on the TV screen was moaning, rutting up against a man with curly blonde hair that was thrusting into her. And, like it was ignoring the very presence of another man inside the room, Dean's dick started to harden. He shifted forward, resting his arms on his knees, trying to hide his erection or make it tamp down. The last thing he needed was for Castiel to notice the chub, pressed up against the tight tug of his jeans (he had foolishly chosen _not_ to wear underwear today), trying to spring free from the coarse denim and not caring who saw.

Dean was, like Gabe had implied, a good ol' all-American boy. He had green eyes, tan skin, and dirty blond hair. His shoulders were broad, narrowing down to a thinner waist and bending back out again with his bowed legs. He _wasn't_ queer. Dean had seen what real queer people looked like; there was this man—if you could call him a man—that used to frequent Harvelle's before old Bill kicked his ass to the curb. His name was Ceasor and he wore lipstick that always matched his tawny charmeuse pants, so snug you could see every single fold and wrinkle on his dick. It wasn't some transvestite thing, either. Dean had found the balls to ask Ceasor about it after seeing him out of the corner of his eye countless times. Ceasor, apparently, just liked to look nice. Dean, who had loosened the top button of his own shirt, figured that there was a different meaning of "looking nice" for queers. And Dean. . . he wasn't _that_. Jack Tripper wasn't exactly a role model but even if the manliest man came out as a homo Dean wouldn't be swayed.

He clenched his fists on his knees. The clock above the TV clicked loudly. They had been watching the video for over 20 minutes now, but Castiel hadn't moved from his spot. Dean didn't want to say anything. He didn't want to make either of them _more_ uncomfortable.

The woman on the TV screen was bucking up into a forced enema, water squirting out off her ass as she keened and played with her unshaven pussy. Dean remained nonplussed. He couldn't touch himself while Castiel was in the room. He couldn't. But it _hurt_ so badly. His face was absolutely beet red from holding his breath and the unhelped shame, sweat rolling down his creased forehead and dropping to his freckled nose. His dick was straining, begging to escape, and he fidgetted restlessly in his seat.

"You can touch yourself," Castiel suddenly stated.

Dean jumped, goosebumps shivering out onto his clammy skin. "Um, what?"

"You can touch yourself," Castiel echoed. "I won't look."

He shouldn't have taken it as permission, but he was aching and rubbed raw and gradually going out of his high-strung mind—with a shaking hand, he unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, lifting up his hips to pull them down below his ass, he exhaled slowly as his leaking cock bounced up and smacked his stomach with a sharp, wet, slapping sound. His shirt has a wet spot on the hem now, so he reached down and pulled it up under his armpits. He got his hand around his dick (forgoing licking his palm because he was already dripping), squeezing the base and staring resolutely at the TV. He could feel Castiel's eyes on him despite the agreement for him not to look. For some reason, that made the tip of his dick leak more.

Castiel made a swooping sighing noise as Dean slid his hand up and down his own shaft—it was just a Pavlovian response that he'd moan, right? Dean shifted down further in the seat, feeling the plastic scrunch up beneath him, spreading his legs further and letting his thumb trace the side of his dick teasingly. He still had 45 minutes to go; just because Dean Jr. was excited didn't mean he should shoot his shot now and waste the three bucks he spent on this whole endeavor like some over-eager chump. 

With all his will power, Dean turned his waning attention back onto the video. There was a threesome going on now, between the white father, his new black wife, and their white maid—Dean blinked when he suddenly realized it was an interracial coupling. Not exactly taboo, but still not an everyday occurrence. _Especially_ in Wichita, Kansas. There might be an African American Museum downtown and the state hadn't been part of the Confederacy, but there were still racists in the midwest. Really, there were racists everywhere. But now wasn't the time to be thinking about bigotry being alive and well in America; so he watched the video with easy curiosity and interest. The wife was screaming, bucking her pulsating clit up into the mouth of the maids who was being pounded into from behind by the husband. They were laying on a satin bedsheet; dildos, and vibrators, and beads, and all kinds of perverted stuff laid around them like anointing flowers. Dean shifted closer, wishing the loud cheesy music wasn't being played so loud, he could barely hear the squeals and cries of the writhing women arching and eyes fluttering in complete pleasure. He watched as they flipped the maid over, the husband thrusting into her by missionary now and the wife was bending over to suck a perk nipple into her drooling mouth.

Dean felt the slit of his dick bubble over with precum, oozing down the head and smearing onto his hand and lubing up his shaft.

He stroked once, letting his head fall back.

Castiel made an aborted noise beside him.

It abruptly brought Dean back into the actual room, away from the video and out of his own head, and he trembled with delicious want. His legs fell further open, back stretching up off the wooden chair, and feet firmly planted on the TV hutch as he tried to steady and balance himself. His toes curled and scrapped on the table top, contrasting avidly with the sound of Castiel breathing laboriously alongside him. He pressed his finger below the bottom lip of his dickhead, panting and splaying his toes and sensing a nerve jump rhythmically on his bicep.

Castiel moved beside him and a sound, so unearthly and yet so immediately recognizable, burst from his spot; the slow descent of a zipper.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, not believing what was happening, stroking his cock repeatedly with a tighter grip to distract himself. But all it did was make his awareness sharpen on the smaller details; the soft sound of Castiel undoing his fly, the scanty bead of sweat trickling down his spine, the steady buzz of the lights above them, and the hilariously distracting track of porno music coming from the TV speakers—Dean, against everything in his mind screaming at him to stay faithful, let his head flop to the side and look directly at Castiel.

Oh, holy fuck.

He screwed his eyes shut, hoping to snub what he just saw from his mind before he could commit it to memory, engraved to the back of his eyelids, soon to be the fodder for all future masturbatory fantasies. The sight of Castiel, crimsoned from neck to the tips of his ears, hand enclosed around his dick, hips snapping up and down with the head peaking out of the closed fist with each thrust like some fucked up game of peek-a-boo. Dean could smell the sex, feel the heat of it, floating off of Castiel as he made these desperate deep pathetic whimpers, staring at the side of Dean's face without any shame. 

"I thought you said you weren't going to look," Dean made himself grit out. 

Castiel replied, voice more gravelly than before if that were possible, "I lied." 

"Y'know, you got some fucking pair of balls on you, Cas."

Dean huffed out a crazed laugh, feeling kind of weightless and like this was all just some erratic dream. He didn't even know this Castiel. He just knew what he appeared to be. What he looked like. What he smelt like. What he sounded like. What he looked like stroking his cock, the uncut foreskin shiny and red and _sexy_ and pulled back as he prodded the sensitive skin, mouth agape with ecstasy and nostrils flared. Dean didn't even know him personally. Would he let any stranger jack off, staring at him, tugging his balls and pressing the space behind them to make his head tip back intoxicatingly? Dean looked at Castiel, giving into the confusing pleasure, why was he doing this? Why was he allowing this man to. . . debase them _both_ like this? It made him feel heady, dick twitching as he tugged it more sharply, precum dribbling more and more from the slit and running all down his hand and even landing on his stomach.

They were just staring at each other now, the porno long was forgotten, just touching themselves and breathing these long-drawn gasps.

Before Dean could process what Castiel was doing, suddenly he had a lapful of compact,  _hard,_ unadulterated man. Dean whipped his hands out, steadying them in case the wooden chair toppled, clenching into Castiel's waist and gulping. Looking up into Castiel's lust blown blue eyes, quivering when he caught the whispered words spilling out of the chewed red lips, "Do you want me to stop?"

 _No_.

But this was his out, wasn't it?

This was where he threw the wanton man off his lap and shouting slurs and obscenities at him and called him disgusting and a fucking dirty queer and to _never_ touch Dean again. It was on the tip of his tongue now. He knew the exact words he'd use. Exactly how he'd use them. But as he gazed up at Castiel—the most attractive guy. . . no, the most attractive  _person_ Dean had ever seen—he couldn't find the urge in him to stop what they were doing. No one would know. Except for maybe Gabe but the guy hadn't exactly gagged himself on a spoon when Dean had accidentally picked up a gay porno from before. So if Dean did this, there would likely be no consequences. He could give in and ride this wild side ride for as long as he wanted. Blinking at his decision, he slowly stretched his hand out and caressed Castiel prickly razor-sharp jaw.

"Don't stop," He said boisterously, proud he appeared at least halfway self-assured.

Castiel's eyes darkened. "Would you like me to suck you off?"

"Yeah," Dean brushed their noses together. He was kind of surprised Castiel had to ask. "Fuckin’ A, yeah, _please_."

Castiel stuck his thumb into Dean's open mouth and got it spit-slick, brushing Dean's nipples with the wet pad and grinning a gummy smile when Dean gasped out a startled cry. He'd _never_ had a woman touch his nipples—it had _always_ been the other way around. And it was like salvation; those greedy bitches never even tried it on him before! Sliding off his lap and kneeling on the floor, Castiel continued to play teasingly with Dean's erect right nipple and said, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

"Alright, dude, I don't need the sweet talk," Dean said with a blush.

"Too gay?" Castiel asked, straight-faced.

Dean completely blanked when Castiel leaned his head down, putting his plush lips around Dean's slick dickhead.

Castiel pulled back off to say, "Because I believe what we're doing negates any of your obtuse hang-ups."

"Listen, penis-breath, w-wha-what— _Oh_ , holy _fuckin_ ' shit . . . _yeaaah_ ," Dean felt his eyelids go heavy, "Oh _fuuuck_." 

Castiel smiled from where he'd gone all the way down the shaft. Dean felt his jaw hang open. Holy fuck! He'd never gotten a blowjob like this before. Never. It was unreal, toe-curling, and perfect. Dean watched, completely transfixed, as Castiel bobbed his head up and down with impeccable precision.

And he realized with a sick sense of dread and reverence that Castiel was ruining him for women—this was why ministers taught not to be gay, it was so much _more_ awesome because men knew exactly how to please another man. No one would want the lesser option of a woman giving her sloppy best, not with another man offering his soft lips and hot mouth and _fuck_. Dean, despite the epiphany, reached his hand out and clenched it in Castiel's begging-to-be-pulled hair. If he was going to be ruined, he wanted to at least enjoy himself and savor the experience. 

Pulling up, deliberately slow and sucking the whole way, Castiel stared at him, eyelashes fluttering prettily and cheeks exertion-red. Dean clenched his jaw shut, feeling it work as Castiel tried a different tactic, only licking the head while pumping the shaft with his long-fingered hand. It wasn't as warm and heavenly, but it might've been more shockingly great.

The little flicks to his slit. _Fuck_. It was too much.

And then Castiel was pushing his tongue right into the slit and working it and then moving down to the bottom lip and just _pushing_. Dean sucked in a harsh breath, tears welling up in his eyes from the blind pleasure, and body trembling from the electric tingling that shot through him when Castiel had just pushed and—he was already close. It was embarrassingly soon, but he could shoot his load right _now_ , paint Castiel's pretty face and make him swallow it and he'd be spent.

But, like Castiel knew exactly what Dean was thinking, the asshole pulled off, wrapping his hand firmly around the base and staving off any orgasm Dean could even theoretically have.

"You are not allowed to come until the video is over."

Dean parted his lips, looking up at the long forgotten porno—which was now just a bunch of swingers rubbing on each other with a fuckton of oil and lady-juice—and then the clicking clock. There was still ten minutes left! He couldn't last that long. He'd fucking die if he had to wait that long. Castiel was trying to torture him. This was what he got for letting some random stranger blow him.

He let his head fall back, muttering out a pathetic, "I won't make it." 

Castiel hummed, "Slow down, buckaroo. I'll give you what you want."

Dean sighed in relief, "Thanks, Cas."

"But first," Castiel pauses, staring at him, anticipating. "But first, you have to get me off."

That was like a cold bucket of water being poured over his head. "Huh?"

"I will give you the best orgasm of your life," Castiel said boldly, massaging Dean's tense thighs. "But only if you can last until the end of the video and get me off in that same amount of time."

Dean gaped. He felt like he swallowed a rock. This guy wanted him to. . . and he waited until after Dean was desperate and enthusiastic and willing and Goddamn  _ruined_. He'd tricked him. Manipulated him. Fed on his weakness. Dean felt his entire body seize up in bright, white-hot anger.

Glaring, he started to let the asshole have it, "You fucking—"

"We can stop if you want," Castiel interrupted simply. "I won't pressure you."

His cock was still hard too. Like it hadn't realized it wasn't gonna be getting any more action. It was just staring up at him sadly. Like, _why don't you just jack this guy off and we'll get to come and it'll be fantastic_? Dean bit his lip, considering both his dick's and Castiel's offer. Jesus, he was _considering_ it. And time was ticking. He only had eight minutes to get Castiel off.

He looked down, past Dean Jr., and tried to see Castiel's dick. The dick he was going to be touching. He shivered, in either anticipation or revulsion. Whatever it was, he couldn't tell anymore. Castiel's dick was uncircumcised, something he'd noticed before. It was also longer than Dean's (by like, an inch) and it was wider (by like, a _lot_ ), but he didn't find that as interesting. Well, until now that was. Because he was going to be _jerking_ it off. It'd be mammoth in his grip, which was used to touching a regular sized cock and not prepared for such a fucking beast. 

"I don't want to stop," Dean said pitifully. 

Castiel smirked devilishly. "Then you know what to do, cowboy." 

He could feel himself cartoonishly gulp and flexed his fingers. Castiel stood up, letting his dick take the spotlight, curving up with a large vein running down the bottom and a very red head glisten as the TV glow caught on it. Dean froze, glued to his seat, as Castiel resituated himself and sat back into Dean's lap without any hesitation. He braced himself on Dean's chair, arms around his head and ass planted on Dean's thighs, cock bobbing expectingly.

Dean looked at it and breathed out a fatal sigh. If Lydia could reach over in the dead of the night and jack him off, or when she was reading a book or gabbing on the phone with her girlfriends, and bring him to a tolerably pleasant completion without a single thought, then Dean could begrudgingly do the same for Castiel. Especially if it meant Castiel would get back onto his knees and engulf him into the scorching heat that was his mouth.

Besides, at this angle, it was almost like he'd be touching himself.  So, with that thought replaying over and over in his mind, he reached out and touched the tip of Castiel's dick with his finger. Not some awkward poke. More like a curious caress. And, favorably, God didn't immediately strike him down. So with the first contact out of the way, Dean slowly wrapped his hand around the girth and clumsily coasted his hand down.

Castiel shuttered above him, the only inclining of if Dean was doing alright or not because he was totally wrong before; just because Dean was also a guy didn't mean he was good at this. It was weird and foreign. He knew where _he_  felt good, but that was because he was _feeling_ it when he was doing it. Here, Castiel was the one getting the pleasure, and Dean was basically shooting into the dark with how fast or slow or if he should finger the slit or if he should just keep pumping—meaning that no gender was inherently better at giving blowjobs or handjobs and motherfucking Castiel was really just a Goddamn professional at swallowing cock. And that made something hot and molten stir in the bottom of his stomach.

He looked up at the clock, mentally cursing.

Only six minutes to get Castiel off. And Dean was doing his best, but he was sloppy and fumbling and clearly a novice. He wasn't going to make it. Castiel was staring down at him with a mixture of arousal and amusement. And that reignited some of his forgotten anger. So, pissed off and determined to prove himself,  he picked up the pace. He stared into Castiel's eyes, unwaveringly, tightening his hold and restricting the tugs to just the top part of the cock—these sharp, almost cheating, painfully pleasurable yanks right under the head, foreskin pushed down. Castiel, not expecting the rapid change, went slack-jawed. Dean gave him a smug smirk, keeping up the unforgiving speed, pulling and _milking_ , and then. . . he reached his other hand down and started squeezing his balls in tandem. 

Castiel dropped his head back, moving his body up to meet Dean's jerks. Like he was thrusting up. Into Dean. Well, into his hand. It almost skeeved him out but then he felt the upside to the thrusting, Castiel was bouncing up and down, _pressing down_ , onto Dean's dick every time.

It was blissful. These little bumps every few seconds. A teasing touch, but at least it was something.

Dean pressed his face into Castiel's chest, giving into the pleasure, jerking him off, and breathing hard. The sooner he got Castiel off, the sooner he'd be back into his carnal mouth—and so, without any uncertainty, he pulled his hand away from Castiel's balls and moved up to undo the buttons of his white dress shirt, licking a hard pinkish nipple into his mouth. Because Dean remembered how amazing _that_ felt.

"Oh," Castiel said, curiously stimulated. And then he scrunched his eyes shut and shivered out a weak, "Please."

"Please, what?" Dean tugged the nipple with his teeth.

Castiel cried out. "Please. Don't stop. Please."

Dean laughed a little, pleased at his own genius. "Don't worry. I'm not as evil as you, Cas."

"I'm not evil," Castiel shuttered, "Just want you to touch me."

"I _am_ touching you," Dean said hotly, working the nipple back into his mouth, steadily jerking him off. 

"It's so good," Castiel panted, looking at him fondly, "You're so. . ."

"Bad to the bone?" Dean guessed, snarkish and confident—like he actually had the upper hand here.

" . . .Perfect," Castiel corrected dizzily.

Dean didn't let himself blush this time. But he did have another thought. Another idea. For some reason, it seemed more reckless than anything they'd done yet. But he wouldn't let himself be swayed, he wanted Castiel to jizz  _now_. And he wasn't above doing anything to make that happen. So, he drove head first, locking their mouths together in a brash jumble of slick and lustful lips. Castiel stopped everything, eyes wide, not expecting the kiss, and Dean had the distinct feeling he _did_ go too far.

He tore back, babbling out apologies, "I'm so sorry, I didn't—"

Castiel surged forward and recaptured his lips. Their tongues met almost instantly. Dean groaned, sinking further into Castiel's broad chest. Jesus, he felt like a thirteen-year-old girl having her first sexual awakening. All this from a kind of slovenly kiss. But it was overwhelming and great. And it made Dean falter his hand's rhythm, so he made up for that by pressing his other hand (his first two fingers, specifically) into Castiel's taint.

Castiel bucked up, overwhelmed as well, with a cock that's jerking and so close to coming. Dean could tell by the twitching head, just one more yank, Castiel would be a shaking mess, shooting his load out and decorating Dean's chest—which made Dean think carefully about his finishing blow; a flick of his tongue in Castiel's mouth, the second press of Castiel's taint, and the very powerful last jerk of his hand.

Eyes fluttering, Castiel came with a shout, fingers grasping onto Dean's shoulders for dear life. 

Dean looked up at the clock; he only had one minute left but he still got it in. Exhaling in mind-numbing relief, Dean didn't care that he was suddenly Castiel's cuddle buddy. The guy was just catching his breath. Nosing into Dean's neck, breathing him in, and grazing his lips along Dean's jaw. Dean let his arms tighten around the guy's waist. Who cares? No one was here to see any of this. His hand was kinda cramping anyway, so it felt nice to just let them both lean into each other and decompress. 

When Dean was thirteen—freckled, sunkissed, and gangly—he'd had his first kiss. It was with this girl named Robin, who had long dark air and blue eyes. She had pulled Dean back to the smoking area, knowing none of the teachers would be out yet, and pressed him up against the brick exterior. Without much warning, they were kissing. Dean remembered the taste of her mouth; Fun Dip. He remembered the feeling of her chapped lips because it was autumn and school had just started back. He also remembered feeling her supple breast a few months later right before they'd broken up and Dean had moved onto a new girl, who was more impressibly skilled with her tongue, named Cassandra. 

When he was seventeen—already a head shorter than his Sasquatch of a little brother, with pretty "cocksucking" lips, and half-a-dozen scars on his knuckles—Dean had his first kiss with a boy. Even now, he couldn't think about it without grimacing. The kid's name was Aaron, Dean still didn't know if the kid was queer or if he was just as ramped up on teenage hormones as Dean was, and they were in wrestling together. They were in the same weight class but Aaron was a little lackluster according to the dick coach that liked to shout at them like some power hungry drill sergeant. Dean was never as afraid of him like the other boys were, though. His dad shouted so much Dean had become numb to it. Anyway, he told Dean to stay back and do some extra lessons with the kid to help him improve his technique. Dean agreed readily since it'd get him out of fucking _math_. 

To cut a long story short, Aaron had finally pinned Dean. It was a proud moment for the kid, and Dean was pretty impressed too with a weird mix of satisfaction because he _nurtured_ that potential. They were all hyped up on testosterone and adrenaline. So when Aaron leaned over and pressed his moist lips directly onto Deans—it was an ominous pregnant moment of stagnation. And then Dean used his sudden hysteria to roll them over, tearing his lips away from Aaron, seeing his guilty wide eyes, and snarling out a pissed off, "Don't you dare touch me again, you fucking fag."

Aaron had just laid there, staring up at him in reverence and trepidation. And Dean had pushed himself up, hacking up a loogie and spitting it right onto Aaron's Star of David necklace. Dean just had his second kiss with a guy and surprisingly he was less disconcerted. He did feel a twinge of something foul and churning in his stomach when he thought about how horrified and panicked Aaron must've felt. 

He remembered when Sammy had brought home homework about the Stonewall riots—the dork was all matter of fact about it, "Gay people are persecuted, Dean. And all because some idiots don't understand that love is love." Dean had cuffed the kid over the head and called him "a fucking bleeding heart hippy-dippy" (while hoping and praying that Sam would keep his new options to himself and not mention his sudden pity for homos in front of their _very_  conservative dad). But now, he wasn't so sure. Dean just gave another guy a hand job. He just kissed him, felt his stubbly jaw and squeezed his nipple. It wasn't like he could throw the first stone, y'know? Especially not now. Maybe he should try and find Aaron in the phonebook and sent him a fruit bowl or something.

Dean nudged a panting Castiel. "Was that okay?"

"Wonderful," Castiel said lustfully, tucking himself back into his slacks. "It's your turn now, though. Isn't it, cowboy?"

Dean bit his lip, his cock jumping already. Jesus, he was fucking pitiful. "Yeah."

Castiel slid back down to the floor. "Think you can come in under a minute?"

Well, considering how worked up he already was—it _might_ be possible.

"I, uh, dunno," He said pessimistically. 

Castiel looked up at the clock, "Well, if we're not out in sixty seconds, Gabriel is going to check-in."

Dean exhaled, distracted, hot, enthusiastic arousal reigniting as the possibility of getting caught entered the picture. Dean had _never_ been one for public sex, but now he was desperate and needy for it. Not wanting to flaunt his deck, he said, "Then you better work fast."

That seemed to be the right thing to say, spurring Castiel on beautifully. Leaning his mouth back down, Castiel swallowed him without respite. Really, Dean should be more impressed by how effortlessly Castiel could do that, but he was more focused on the hot, tight, suction on his dick than pointing out how Castiel was certainly not a newbie when it came to sucking men off.   

 

Castiel gripped Dean's erection, holding it firmly in his hand, and flattening his tongue beneath the tip—he squirmed as Castiel just let his hot breath and glistening spit saturate. The anticipation was almost _too_ much, and just as Dean was about to shake out of his boots in pure apprehension and tension, Castiel sunk back down and swallowed tightly. Castiel's mouth was like a vacuum seal, Dean thought blindly, as he trembled and cried these wet messy sobs. Holy fuck he was _crying._ He had never cried during sex. Never. His world was being shaken, turned upside down, and rewritten. All the while these huge tears were running down his flushed cheeks.

Castiel looked up at him, eyelashes fluttering prettily, and mouth stretched wide around Dean's cock.

Thirty seconds left. Dean bucked up, dick hitting the back of Castiel's throat; he froze, expecting Castiel to pull off and gag, but instead, Castiel moaned encouragingly. Slowly, Dean reached his hands down, fingers threading through his silky brown hair. Castiel blinked, mouth tightening and spit dripping down the shaft hotly. Dean tightened his fingers experimentally, gasping when Castiel's throat vibrated pleasurably around his cock head. Fuck. He started moving his hand, controlling Castiel's movements and using him like a fuck toy.  

Dean cracked his eyes open when he heard the unmistakable blast of static.

The porno was over already. Dean cut his eyes over to the door, heart beating like a hummingbird and waiting for Gabe the bitchy receptionist to bang open the door and smarm out some cheesy line about them being fags or queers or. . . but nothing happened—he sat frozen in the wooden seat, waiting to be found out, and _nothing was happening_.

Castiel, tired of Dean not uncontrollably fucking his mouth, pulled back and kissed his slit sloppily.

"I want your full attention," Castiel said with his husky voice.   

"But what about Gabe. . ." Dean trailed off with a whine as Castiel resumed sucking on only his dick tip. "The video's over."

"Concentrate on me," Castiel said, accentuating the command by squeezing Dean's balls.

Dean keened, completely out of his mind.

"The faster you come, the less chance he'll get to see you," Castiel whispered heatedly. 

"Oh fuck," Dean garbled out.

"Mmmh," Castiel moaned, tilting his head down and sucking a ball into his hot mouth. "Mhhh."

"Holy shit," Dean exclaimed, tingles running from where Castiel was touching him all the way to the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes. It was so _good_. "Holy fucking shit." 

And then, without any indication or warning, Castiel sank down even further and licked his _hole_. 

Dean tried to scramble away, but there was a hold on his dick and he was sitting in a tilted back wooden chair, so he just ended up wriggling awkwardly—which Castiel took as encouragement and kept on sweeping his tongue lavishly over his delicate and sensitive opening. Dean, finally finding his voice, managed to whimper out, "W-wa-what are you doin'?"

Castiel stretched back to say, "Eating you out." And then he proceeded.

It was weird. But, with Castiel stroking his dick in time with the licks, it was equally as pleasurable.

"J-J-Jesus," Dean sputtered out. "Jesus fucking Christ."

And just as suddenly, yet not very sudden at all, Dean came. 

Castiel had managed to feel his balls tightening, pulling up quickly to catch some of the last spurts of cum in his mouth. 

Dean's lashes fluttered. Jesus.

Coming down from that high was sleepy eyes and slurred words, running from his mouth in a mad dash of slightly distinct pronunciations and stuttering syllables, " _H-h-h-heeeeey_ , duh- _dude_ , that was _ahhhh_ -some."

"I'm glad," Castiel said, resting his chin on Dean's knee, staring up and him fondly. "Do you want me to clean you up?"

" _Yeaaaah_ ," Dean stretched his arms above his head, back and shoulders cracking accordingly, "If you don't, um, mind."

"Oh, I certainly don't," Castiel said, flicking his tongue out to lick up the spurts of cum on his belly.

Dean jerked back when Castiel began to work under the head of his dick, licking stripes up and down the shaft to "clean" him. But it was too much, he was oversensitive and tender. His voice coming out like a squeaky toy, Dean said, " _Wooaaah_ , too soon, Cas."  

Castiel smirked, bemused and licking his cum splattered lips and fingers, he stood up. Straightening out, clicking off the VCR and TV, and putting the tape back in its box, Castiel held his hand out for Dean. "Come on, cowboy, I always want to leave our customers satisfied—would you let me clean you _properly_?"

"'kay," Dean said softly, his mind whirling a mile a minute as he processed Castiel's words; what exactly did he mean when he said he always wanted to leave customers satisfied? Was Dean just another notch in the mile-long bedpost that was Castiel's sexual prey? Not that he _had_ to be special but he _did_ assume this wasn't a regular thing Castiel did. He watched Castiel pick up his dick, tucking it tenderly back into his pants and using a navy handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe up the mess on Dean's stomach. Castiel didn't routinely pounce on men that came into the booth, shaking their world and turning straight men gay, right? He added distractedly, "Thanks."

"Of course," Castiel said, leaning forward and pressing their mouths together. 

Dean sank into the kiss. It was so wonderful and lazy. Tongues sliding against each other. Hands roaming.

He pulled back, their lips unlocking slowly, "And thanks for, uh, y'know."

Castiel smirked. "When you come back, maybe you could select a more  _suitable_  film . . ."

Dean looked down, something in his stomach fluttering. "Come back?"

"I had a very good time," Castiel said seriously. "If you would be amendable, I would like a repeat performance."

"An encore?" Dean joked weakly. 

"Yes," Castiel simply said.

Well, what would three more dollars be in the grand scheme of things? This may just be a clever business tactic to get Dean to come back and spend more money—but for some reason, Dean couldn't care less about that. He tilted back in, connecting their lips and putting all his feelings and thoughts into the roughness and gentleness of the kiss, separating, he said, "Why not."

"Why not," Castiel mimicked, with a swollen mouth and wild, lust-swelled eyes. "I look forward to it."

Dean stepped back, hand on the doorknob, "I, uh. Me too."

"And I look forward to Kansas City Trucking Co. gracing the tube," Castiel said pointedly.

"We'll see," Dean said nebulously, not wanting to give away how terrifying that idea sounded. If he picked up the one gay porno, Gabe would know for sure. And Dean definitely was not comfortable with that. Suspicion and confirmation were two totally different things. Stepping back out into the quiet stillness that was the video store, Dean winced at the bright lights and the knowing grin on the receptionists face.

"Damn, you had the volume up loud in there!" Gabe exclaimed, waggling his eyebrows. "It seriously sounded like the sex was happening _in_ the booth and not on the TV."

Dean blushed, the red only intensifying as Castiel suspiciously stepped out after him.

Gabe snorted. "Damn. My bad. Looks like you got the deluxe package." 

Well, too late on the whole _Gabe would know for sure_  concern.

Castiel caught onto the insinuation immediately, arms crossed, "Are you finished, Gabriel?"

"No more than you are, bro," Gabe said cheekily, turning to look at Dean appreciatively. "And he's a pretty one, too." 

Dean cleared his throat, eyes darting over to the exit, "Thanks for, uh, the good time. But, I, uh, better go—so, um, bye."

"Bye," Gabe said smugly. 

Castiel stared at him, half-apologetic and half-jittery, "Goodbye. . ."

Oh, right. Castiel hadn't asked for his name. The whole time they were kissing and touching, and sharing things that were _purposeful_ and _important_ and that _meant something_ , Dean had been too worried about the reality of Castiel being a dude. The fact that they were strangers kind of got buried in the midst of all the other bullshit. Dean shouldered open the door, bell jingling gently, like a caress of the summer outside slipping in distractingly.

"It's Dean." And it felt like an introduction but at the end of their time together—they'd gone at this so backward. He watched the understanding fall over Castiel's open face before stepping back out into the scorching heat of the sunny Kansas day.

Goddamn. His eyelashes touched his cheek. Reality smacking him in the face. It was backhanded, too. The shop had been like a precious bubble. But now, with people walking through the streets and birds warbling in trees and horns honking down the road and just _normalness_ seeping through, everything felt that much more slanted. Dean's skin was itchy and hot and moist. And as the panic enclosed like a vice around his neck, Dean exhaled. And he inhaled. And he exhaled. He stood on the sidewalk, still in front of the video store, and just breathed. 

He contemplated calling Sam. But he felt too gross for that. He'd just orgasmed not five minutes ago. Right down Castiel's throat. His hole had been worked. And he came, whimpering and keening like a broken bitch, blissed out. And as soon as it ended, he had been cleaned up and kicked out. And now his brain was shoving all these thoughts into the forefront of his mind and making him examine them closely—"why did you let this man suck you off, Dean?", "why didn't you throw him off like you did to Aaron?", "are you seriously attracted to Castiel, you Goddamn queer?"

His inner voice sounded suspiciously like his dad.

Dean tried breathing again. In and out. Very manually. In and out. He had to make himself breath. In and out. 

He walked over to his Impala and sat behind the steering wheel. He turned the ignition, shifted into drive, and peeled out of his parking spot—Queen blasted from the radio and Dean absorbed the normally glossed over words of Under Pressure. He rolled down the window. The nice breeze and the wonderful music showering over him. 

Dean looked at the sunset, felt the barely-there density of his and Castiel's sweat on his skin, and sighed.

When his hands stopped shaking, he settled himself.

He was going to go back home to his girlfriend, kiss Lydia tenderly on the mouth, and then go to Ellen's for a strong drink. And then, when he could look at himself in the mirror without wanting to shatter it and stab himself with the leftover shards, he would come back to the video store.

Even though he was disgusted with himself, he still knew a good thing when he saw it.

Besides, he already agreed. It'd be fucked if he copped out after already saying yes.

But even knowing exactly where he was going, what direction he was taking, Dean felt astonishingly unsure. Lost, maybe? He blinked rapidly, resolving himself. Castiel, with all his quirks and his strange Rainman-way of talking and his confidence without any of the suave of an actual confident person, was surely _the best thing_. Even if Dean was sickened with himself, he felt nothing but warmth towards the guy—guilt towards Aaron—and that had to mean _something._ Maybehe just had horribly self-hatred? Dean snorted. If only that was the extent of his issues. No, Castiel was something special and Dean intended to explore it. No matter what.

And so, with his mind made up, Dean pressed down the gas pedal.

He actually wanted to get there faster.

Even with the niggling insecurities and doubts, this wasn't something he needed to straddle the fence over.  


	2. Given in the Light

"So," Charlie looked unimpressed, "This is why you've been skipping out on D&D?"

Castiel gawked over to his brother, who just shrugged and left him to fend for himself.

"Some big brother you are," He rasped out.

"Hey," Gabriel sat down on his stool, right in front of the ten-cent, printed-off, surveillance picture, which was captured on their newly installed CCTV cameras—hands up in mock surrender, "I'm supposed to protect you from beefy flamboyant chaps in _assless chaps_  that try to take you and your virtue away. Nowhere in my big brother contract did it mention little ginger dykes that weight a buck 10 soaking wet. _Your_ weirdo friend, _your_ weirdo fight, Cassie."

"We are not fighting," Castiel immediately defended.

"Aren't we?" Charlie raised a fiery eyebrow. "Listen, Cas, if you bail again we're going to have to vote you out of the party."

"How tragic," Gabriel swooned theatrically.

Castiel looked conspiringly down at the aforementioned picture. "Is it so bad that I've. . . found someone to occupy my time with?"

Charlie sighed, dropping her head into her hands, "You're hopeless, Casanova."

"That's exactly what I said. Casanova and all! Great minds think alike, huh?" Gabriel piped up, grinning, sliding on a pair of freshly bought aviators, "Are sunglasses inside wicked or what?"

Gilda, Charlie's mousy girlfriend, suddenly spoke, "Unless you're blind, you just look like a douche bag."

"Well, I never!" Gabriel exclaimed with a southern accent, pretending to be hurt. "Are you sure you even want to be in their crusade, Cassie?"

"Campaign," Charlie corrected.

"Sorry," Gabriel shook his head, blinking like he was coming out of a daydream. "I thought you said something but I couldn't hear you over the prevailing geekiness you ooze."

"And I couldn't hear you over the giant dick in your mouth," Charlie bit back, face almost as red as her hair.

Castiel ran a fingertip along Dean's strong square jaw. Even though the fussiness of the photograph made it almost impossible to see every intricate detail of Dean's lovely features, Castiel could make out the broad slopes and divots—his sharp cheekbones, his beautiful nose, the bow of his upper lip. 

"I think it is a freaky talent how fast you two can go from talking to arguing, but I'd rather concern myself with getting this over with," Castiel said, folding up the paper and sticking it into his breast pocket. "I'll tone down on the Dean talk. I'll come to your next campaign." He turned to Gabriel specifically for the next one, "And I'll warn you next time I'm blowing a stranger in the booth."

Gabriel actually looked relieved at that last one. "Ace, Cassie. Not that it wasn't implied, but direct communication is always best."

"I _actually_ agree, Shurley," Charlie seemed surprised but masked it motheringly into her disappointment, turning her attention back to Castiel. "So, with that after school special in mind, you free on Saturday? No D&D, no movies, no video games—we'll pick you up and head to Arabian Nights."

"Arabian Nights," Castiel repeated slowly.

"Oooooh—" Gabriel crooned, letting his tongue waggle out of his mouth like a cartoon dog, "You wanna take him to a gay bar?"

Castiel stiffened where he stood, eyes latching onto the flattened version of Dean's below him on the ugly purple counter. He could practically feel the disapproving leer in those colorless, lifeless,  _green-less_  irises. He wondered briefly if personifying the grainy picture was creepy.

Would Dean mind? Would Dean even come back to be able to mind? What they had done. . . It could've been a one-time arrangement. Dean said he wanted to come back. Wanted a reprise. But that was weeks ago. And Castiel wasn't obtuse. He saw the panicked frenzy in Dean's eyes as he stumbled out of their shop. Castiel had recognized it immediately because he had seen the same look in his own eyes staring at himself in the mirror, right after jacking himself off to thoughts of Balthazar Roché shooting basketballs with a sweat-soaked shirt and cute dimples deepening lavishly. 

It was different now though. Here's the deal: Castiel's gay. He had his big gay panic already. It was more than a few years ago that he held himself, imagining coming right down Balthazar's open throat and smearing the leftover pre-cum all in his golden curls of hair, staring at himself in the mirror and panting and wishing he was dead. 

But he was sure of himself now. Well, when it came to his sexuality, he was sure—a lot of that self-acceptance was thanks to Charlie. She'd been a great friend. And she convinced him to formally come out to Gabriel. Which might've been a mistake. Not because Gabriel was homophobic, but because the idiot was unbearably annoying and Castiel was all but inviting the teasing by spelling it out as he did. And maybe it was a big brother thing to torment your little sibling, but Castiel could only handle a handful of gay jokes before he went Ralph Macchio on the assbutt.

Looking at Charlie, Castiel exhaled slowly. Being raised Christian, Castiel knew his life would be much easier if he just pretended with girls. If Charlie just pretended with guys. But she was steadfast. She was willing to gamble everything just to be her true self. Charlie and Gilda walked down the sidewalk holding hands. And Castiel felt explicitly jealous of them. Not because he liked either of them, although he was sure that would solve several of his problems, but because they weren't afraid. And Castiel was deeply frightened.

It might be the late '80s but things weren't nearly as progressive as the Reagans were claiming it to be—and they were known as being "tolerant of homosexuals" thanks to their openly gay interior decorator. Castiel had just rolled his eyes when Charlie declaimed that America's new wave in social politics was in favor towards gays. That they were feeling sympathetic about the AIDS epidemic. That things were finally looking up.

No. People were just sad all their favorite queer celebrities were biting the dust. Charlie gave up trying to convince him after that. Things could have been getting better, though. Castiel stopped paying attention a while ago. The news just depressed him. But 1990 was right about the corner and Castiel was glad the '80s were coming to their bitter end. 

"I am not going to a gay bar," Castiel said flatly. 

Charlie shrugged like it was no big deal. "Fine. I don't care what we do. I just wanna hang."

"We really do need you at our next gathering," Gilda said to him, voice lilt-y and soft like a budding flower. "You have the best stats."

"Abilities," Charlie cough-said under her breath.

"Yeah, cos' he's awesome," Gabriel stated loudly, reaching over to ruffle up his hair. "Little Cassie is the very _best_ nerd."

Castiel jerked his head away, hands flying up to his now staticky hair to flatten the wild tuffs and cow-licks out.

"They're just kidding, Gabriel."

"So you suck? Why do they want you so bad if you suck?"

"He's a nice addition," Charlie guaranteed.

"As long as Meg isn't there," Castiel eventually said.

"She's our dungeon master, airhead," Charlie snorted. "Listen, just come to my apartment tomorrow night. 7 PM. It'll be the regular crowd. With some booze. Uh, maybe we'll play on Kevin's Atari if we get too bored."

Castiel exhaled. Charlie always ended up getting her way in the end. "Fine."

Charlie beamed, "Great!"

And because they were nepotic, Charlie walked over to the cassette collection and plucked out a random 8track from the pile, sliding it into her fanny pack and gliding out the door easily—Gilda fluttering along beside her the whole while, long brown hair threaded with flowers and legs covered with her distractingly flowy tie-dyed skirt. Castiel watched them leave, typing the charge onto Charlie's long overdue tab with the cash register. Without all the excitement, Castiel went back to staring longingly down at Dean's picture-perfect face. 

"So fucking hopeless," Gabriel shook his head. "Y'know, I never pegged you as boy crazed, Cassie."

"I am not a thirteen-year-old girl," Castiel stated. "I am not boy crazed."

"Uh-huh," Gabriel looked between Castiel and the picture of Dean. "Totally normal and not crazy."

"Listen, I _need_ to be here," Castiel huffed. "If Dean comes back and I left. . . he'll think I changed my mind."

"So, you avoid your little weirdo friends," Gabriel clarified. "That seems healthy."

"It's not like I'm missing much," Castiel said impolitely. 

"Yeah," Gabriel actually agreed, "You need new, cool, friends."

Instantly, Castiel felt on the defensive. He gritted out, "Hey, I'm just not into Dungeons and Dragons like they are. They're still good friends."

"Whatever," Gabriel shrugged, "I'm taking my lunch."

Castiel turned back to his picture of Dean. Maybe he was a little obsessive—but it'd been a few weeks. He could've come on too strong. Dean seemed like the kind of man that would panic terribly after what they'd done. And Castiel did nothing to ease that alarm. Essentially, after they'd finished, Castiel had kicked him out of the room before either of them really got to relish in the afterglow. In hindsight, it wasn't the most accommodating plan of attack. But he was just as shocked as Dean that he'd allowed himself to do what he did. He might be admissible and candid about his sexuality, but that didn't mean he went around just fucking random men.

In the gay community, at least the places he frequented with Charlie, the common consistency was men being fast and loose. Castiel, even if the threat of AIDS wasn't a factor, always was the safest, most patient, and monogamous gay in every scene he was in. Charlie, the least agro-lesbian he knew, even out slept him—going with butch, feminine, and even the dyke-y-ist of dykes. She really had no type and she wasted no time getting all the ladies into her bed. Her commitment to Gilda was actually surprising. But Castiel, on the other hand, couldn't be in anything remotely related to an open relationship.

He stared down at the picture, mind going a mile a minute; did Dean drop so severely that he went out and hooked up with a woman? Did he already have a girlfriend? They didn't exactly talk about those things when Castiel had Dean's dick down his throat. He licked his lips unconsciously. It wasn't like he regretted what they had jumped headfirst into. Castiel thought about Dean jerking him off, touching his balls, and kissing his lips every night. But he wished he at least had gotten the man's landline. A shiver went through his body as he imagined phone sex between them. He shook his head, cheeks pink. Dean made him like that; lecherous and reckless.

Perhaps Gabriel was right—'boy crazed", indeed. Although it _seemed_ to only be directed towards Dean. He sighed, fingernail picking at the corner of the picture.

He blinked as a blast of heat pushed through the screen of the window beside the door. 

As it turned out, Summer in Kansas City was even more horrible than the brown, crisp, nightmare of Fall. And the claustrophobic entanglement of the snowy winter. And the everlasting chill of the slowly defrosting Spring. A KC Summer was sweltering, pinching, and nothing like the sweet sea salt breeze of home—where his skin became golden under the sun, blond streaks curling through brown hair even more than usual thanks to the briny water, and the sunshine smell of his mom’s tight embrace as he held her tight. He tightened his own arms around his waist, picturing her pretty hair falling over her shoulder as she complimented him on his testimonial, tugging him close and laying her soft cheek on his forehead. He flinched as he accidentally touched an old scar, tender and almost faded into the new pale complexion of his skin.

Driving here this morning, he’d ran over a pothole and blew his Continental's back right tire to shit. Kansas City was an old town; the roads were shredded almost everywhere you turned.  Whenever he drove over the pothole, he’d cursed and jumped out of the car, running back and kicking the tire with all his might. It deflated, looking up at him, a bad omen for how the rest of the day was going to go. He had to change the flat, pulling the jack and spare out of the trunk, cursing this stupid town and its stupid potholes.

When he pulled into the video store he was twenty minutes late. Thankfully Gabriel wasn’t mad. He just shooed him into the back booth to began cleaning, smiling innocently when Castiel came out covered with sweat and dried jizz. And after gifting him with the security footage from Dean's visit and announcing Charlie's presence—"Your nerdy friend's here, Cassie"—everything went still. Now, after a shower, Castiel stared down at Dean's handsome face and waited.

Another draft of heat punched him in the face, so he got off the stool and went over to flick on the overhead fan.  

The bell above the door jingled.

Castiel swallowed. What if it was Dean?

He smoothed out his shirt, turning with a small smile. But it instantly deflated when he noticed the unfamiliar face.

"Hi, do you have Adventures in Babysitting?" The woman asked, friendly.

He held in a disappointed exhale, pointing to a row of movies. "It should be in the crime and thriller section."

"Thanks!" And then she wandered off.

Castiel went back to his spot behind the counter. 

He really hated his job.

It was Wednesday, ten after 7 PM, and Castiel was standing on Charlie's doormat. His hands were deep in his trench coat pockets, fiddling with lint, string, and the glossy piece of photo paper. He heard faint voices beyond the door, laughing and speaking softly—his stomach churned nervously. 

Before he could rap his knuckles on the smooth wood grain, it flung open. Meg's cat-like smirk greeted him. "Well, if it isn't our little tree topper."

Castiel grimaced. "Hello, Margaret."

Her smile persevered the formal name. "What're you doing out here all by your lonesome?"

"I was debating turning around and pretending I never came." He flinched after he said it; the words _too_ rude.

She just laughed, hands-on her petite waist. "Come on, Clarance. We need your dexterity." 

They walked into the apartment. Actually, it was a loft—no walls beside for the tiny corner bathroom, an inclined ladder up to a tiny platform bed holder, and kitchen so small the fridge could've been an icebox. The living room was packed with people, all huddled around a coffee table. Castiel recognized a few of them: Charlie, Gilda, Kevin, Benny, Garth, Fergus, and Meg (who'd migrated out from behind him and sat on Charlie's velour love seat). But the rest was a mystery.

Thankfully, after squinting into the crowd of unknown faces for a few aborted seconds, he noticed the name tags. Stuck to every chest, a name was written on tape with a cherry red pen. He tried to memorize them; Kelly with jelly shoes and coffee-colored eyes, Ash with a rattail and mullet combo, Victor with Jheri-curls and a bomber jacket, and finally Jo with long blonde hair falling over her suit jacket's large padded shoulders: some of them he remembered being introduced to when he first met Charlie. 

Speaking of the devil, Charlie bounced up. "You made it!" Her eyes were already glossy.

He nodded, looking at the rest of the people engaged in a heated debate. "Are you already in motion?"

"Nah," She giggled, bringing up a frosty can of beer and supping it. "We're deciding where to get take out from."

"Just get some pizza," He said.

Meg looked at him, eyebrow hiked, and said very sarcastically, "What a _great_ idea." She raised her voice over the rumble of bickering, "You hear that everybody? Clarence said to just order pizza!"

"Fuck you," Someone spit back.

"No shit," Fergus said. 

"We decided pizza, like, ten minutes ago," Charlie explained sheepishly. "Now it's where, toppings, and who's paying."

"A little more complicated than just _ordering pizza_ , huh?" Meg mocked, leaning against a wall.

He really wished he stayed home.

Charlie patted a spot next to her, sitting cross-legged. "Come on, Cas." 

Sitting rigidly, he listened in on the bickering and resolved himself to silence. 

After ten more minutes of debate, it was decided that they'd order two large pepperoni pizza from the closest joint (a Pizza Hut which they all referred to as a Pizza Slut) and split the bill evenly. Meaning Castiel had to fork over a few dollars from his wallet, closing the chunky leather thing and sliding it back into his back pocket. He didn't even like pepperoni, but he wasn't about to tell anyone that. He'd just pick them off later. 

"Alright," Meg clapped her hands after Charlie got off the phone, "Time to began, children."

And then they were playing D&D—Castiel was the worst player at the table. He'd only played a hand full of times, so he wasn't foreseeing being an expert. But even Jo, who claimed to be inexperienced, picked up the rules and began roleplaying easily with the rest of them. Castiel just sat there. Listening to everyone else ramble on about their characters and what they were doing. He sat there, the picture of Dean burning a hole in his pocket, wondering if he could leave without them noticing. 

"So," Kevin was speaking now, "We have one chance to escape from the sinister dictator's stockade, but we have no idea where we're supposed to go afterward and how we're going to survive?"

"Essentially," Fergus responded. "We _can_ long rest."

"That's lame," Ash said, scratching his chin.

"We also can't spell cast," Benny drawled. "We're chained up and warded."

"Lock picking?" Kelly suggested.

"Who's got good dexterity?" Ash asked.

Gilda whipped her head around to look at Castiel. "Dexterity is Cas's middle name, isn't it?"

Suddenly, eleven pairs of eyes were on him. 

"Aces," Garth grinned.

Meg leaned back, smirking. "You'll need fifteen points."

He looked down at his sheet, sweat building on his hairline. "I have that."

She purred, "Okay. You're all out of your chains. But you're still in the stockade."

"Can't Cas just lock pick us out of that too?" Kevin snorted.

"It's closed with a massive iron gate, bolted into the stone."

"I guess not." 

A scattering of laughter erupted. And Castiel sighed in relief. Thankfully, the spotlight was off him. 

Normally, Castiel was a confident person. But he was completely out of his element here.

The doorbell rang a few minutes later while Fergus and Kelly were fighting over whether or not to befriend a fellow gypsy prisoner. Charlie seemed very interested and enthralled by the quarrel, so she grappled at the wad of cash on the table (all their collective cash, really) and handed it over to Castiel with a whispered, "Can you go get the pizza, Cas?"

He stood up, running a hand through his hair, and walking to the door.

Pulling the door open, his eyes bugged out of his head.

Dean.

He blinked.

It was Dean.

Dean was here. 

Here was Dean.

Dean.

Dean.

And now he was just idiotically gaping at Dean—he also noticed that thankfully Dean was almost identical.

"Hello, Dean, " He said. Otherwise, they would've remained frozen. "You're not the pizza man."

"Nah," Dean said, rubbing his hands on his faded Levis. "I'm, uh, here to pick up some people."

Castiel frowned, pocketing the money into his coat. "Who?"

"Benny, Ash, and Jo," Dean said quickly.

"But we're in the middle of a campaign."

"They said to pick them up half past 7."

Castiel felt more disoriented than he'd ever been in his life. Here he was having a halfway normal conversation with Dean. He wondered if he should pinch himself. Maybe he fell asleep at the table? Kevin _was_ droning on about the merits of gypsy OC's. It would only make sense that he'd take a short nap. He clenched his hand around the money, pressing half-moons into his skin from his nails. Nothing happened. He didn't wake up. But his palm did sting. He resolved himself to the fact that this was really happening and he wasn't asleep—and if he _was_ sleeping he couldn't tell if this was some freakish nightmare or a pleasing dream.

"Well, I'll go tell them. Do you want to come in?"

"No, I'll, um, wait here."

The apartment was a loft. There was a clear view of the entire group. For some reason, neither of them mentioned it.

Castiel walked back over to the group, waiting for a lull to speak, "We got a carpooler—"

"Where's the pizza?" Kelly interrupted with a pout, patting her pregnant belly. "Jack keeps jumping over the candlestick."

He tried again, more firm as to not be disrupted again. "It's not the pizza man. Dean's here. He's some of your rides?"

Benny, Ash, and Jo immediately looked at him. Charlie, too, but he pointedly ignored her.

"He early," Jo complained, leaning back on the couch and crossing her arms.

"We definitely said 8:30," Benny stated with a frown.

"Well, invite him in." Fergus said, "We'll need some witnesses for the utter massacre I'm about to unleash."

And then a fight broke out on whether or not to risk trusting their fellow inmates to escape the stockade. Castiel knew he should be contributing, but he honestly couldn't find it in him to care about the campaign or the risk the party was taking by trusting the gypsy prisoner. He just walked back over to the door, not exactly believing what was happening. Dean was leaning nonchalantly against the door frame, pretending like he hadn't been able to hear every word that was just said.

"Do you want to come in?" Castiel asked again. "They said you're early."

Dean looked disappointed. "Oh. No. I'll go wait in my car."

Then Dean turned and walked down the hall without another word. Castiel stood there like an idiot, just watching. Out of the hundreds of thousands of scenarios where he imagined running into Dean again this was never a likelihood and it completely reeled him to the core—it blew all his witty remarks and flirtations out of his mind, lost forever to the nesting confusion living there now.

And because he was a jumble of confusion, his brain determined it was a good idea to follow Dean. 

Since Dean had already gotten on the elevator, doors closed and floor number decreasing on the aloft count down, Castiel had to wait for the next lift. Unsurprisingly, the wait didn't deter him from chasing after Dean. In fact, he resolutely did _not_ think about it—choosing to focus on things like, "did Charlie know?" and "Dean knows Benny, and Castiel has known Benny for a while, how have they never crossed paths before now?". The doors dinged open and Castiel stepped inside, pressing the button and waiting out the slow decline.

Music played lowly in the background. The lights above flickered. The elevator groaned. Castiel gripped the bar, not caring how germy it was. Finally, the elevator jerked to a stop, doors opening slowly—a couple of people were waiting to get on. Castiel couldn't bare to smile politely at them. Instead, he shouldered past them and walked out of the apartment building. He spotted Dean almost immediately.

Leaning against his car, a warm glow at his mouth, pretty lips letting smoke escape them—Castiel approached casually.

Dean looked up, blinking, shoving his hands into his pockets. His cigarette hung from his mouth, "Cas?" Confused and muffled.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said, voice thankfully steady. 

"What're you doing out here?"

 _I followed you._ But that didn't seem like something he should admit. "I'm not really into D&D."

"So, you're not a complete nerd?"

"I think we can both agree I'm not a nerd."

"Yeah," Dean let his eyes trail over Castiel's face and body, looking away and reddening, "Most nerds aren't the Mr. Miyagi of sex."

Castiel bit his lip to stop a smile. He leaned against the car, besides Dean, their thighs brushed.

A few minutes of unbroken silence and stillness later, Castiel decided to burst the bubble.

"How do we know that the universe and everything inside it wasn’t created seconds ago?" He clarified a second later, "Including our memories."

Dean just gaped at him. "What?"

Castiel clasped his hands together, breathing hot air into them. "Sometimes I’ll realize that I'm alive and it's the present. I'll think about that. I'll say something random out loud to myself to represent the moment. Maybe I've been alive the entire time. Or maybe my reality started and I just came preprogrammed with thoughts and memories. Have you ever experienced that?"

"No," Dean answered slowly, "That's a little too smart for a dumbass like me." 

"More like, too _insane_  for you," Castiel snort-laughed.

"Cute laugh," Dean said under his breath.

Castiel's face became hot. Were they flirting now? He shivered. It was so cold out here—which meant his cheeks were already red from the cutting wind. Maybe the bitter cold  _wasn't_ so horrible. It perfectly disguised his blushing. "Thank you," He said, his breath visible in the dark chilly night air. "It's not something conscious. I mean, laughing usually isn't. But, uh, thank you."

"Usually, _I'm_ the one stuttering."

"This role reversal isn't exactly an exciting development."

"Maybe not for you," Dean snickered, "I'm just jubilant, Cas."

"Jubilant?"

"It was in this weeks crossword," Dean shrugged.

"I don't read the paper."

"I only do cause we get it delivered," Dean shrugged.

We. Dean said we. Castiel couldn't help but obsess over it. He said belatedly, "Well, you're keeping a middle schooler employed." 

Dean said thoughtfully, "Are you impressed that I'm helping little Johny buy his action figures or do you think the paper route is child labor?"

"How do you know he's buying action figures?"

"What else is he buying: crack for his other 6th graders?"

"Not with _Just Say No_ Nancy running around."

Dean snorted.

Castiel felt something warm in his chest expand with that laugh.

He put his hands in his pockets. He frowned when he felt something hard. Pulling it out he laughed at the twenty-sided die.

Dean plucked it out of his hands. "I was wrong before. You can be a fucking filthy sex mentor _and_ a nerd."

Castiel tried to grab it back. "I picked it up on accident."

Dean smile mysteriously. "Wait, I got an idea."

"What?" Castiel gave up, leaning back against the car.

Dean looked down at the die, "If I roll anything higher than a ten, you have to answer a question."

"What?"

"It's a game," Dean said, shaking the die between his two hands. He blew on it. Hesitating a second before reaching his hands over for Castiel to blow. It felt provocative. Something stirred in his lower stomach. Dean staring at him with his wide green eyes. But Castiel pursed his lips, blowing into the opening between Dean's two thumbs. Then, Dean leaned down to drop the die onto the pavement. 

It landed on seventeen.

Dean grinned. "You want to play?"

Castiel rolled his eyes. He would've answered Dean's questions without the die. But if this was the way Dean needed it to be: "Fine."

Dean asked, the question obviously prepared, "Is there anything about your life you'd change?"

"No. Well. . ." Castiel's eyebrows wrinkled. "I'd make my brother less annoying."

"Unfortunately, I think brothers are made to be annoying," Dean joked.

Castiel couldn't stop his lips from quirking up. "Speaking from experience?"

"Let's just say it's a big brothers job to annoy his little brother," Dean smirked.

It was obvious he was enjoying this. Dean rolled the die again eagerly. It landed on twelve. 

He asked immediately, "Do you hate anyone?"

Castiel shook his head, "No. Well, Meg is a thorn. But as much as she's prickly, I have to admit she's also a good person."

He hummed like he agreed. Maybe he knew Meg, as well. It really _would_ be a small world. 

Dean picked up the die, looking up at Castiel questioningly, "One more?"

"Why not," Castiel shrugged, watching Dean roll it against on the cool pavement beneath them. 

It landed on five.

Dean cursed. "Okay, you ask me something."

Castiel floundered. It was Dean's game. Dean made up the rules. And Castiel asking a question hadn't been part of it seconds ago. He was completely blank on what to ask. He decided to go with the first thing that popped into his head, hand in his pocket, picking at Dean's picture anxiously, "Oh, uh, okay: what are you most self-conscious about?"

Dean looked at him, startled. "I, uh, don't know off the top of my head." He handed to die back over awkwardly. Castiel watched as Dean fumbled with his cigarette, loosing all that previous cool as he shifted uncomfortably. "Probably. . . if I'm being honest. . . I'm most self-conscious about what we did."

Castiel didn't know what to say. His stomach dropped painfully. They returned to silence. Castiel stared down at the ground, hand squeezing around the twenty-sided die. Dean's picture was beside his fist, crinkling with each move of his hand. Castiel almost wished he was back at the shop, pinning uselessly after an aloof Dean.

"You want a smoke?" Dean asked a few seconds later.

"I don't. . ." He trailed off after seeing Dean's pleading stare. "Alright."

Dean handed him a cigarette.

Castiel, seeing a cluster of digits written on the side of the stick, pocketed it. It felt like an olive branch. "Thank you."

"Yeah," Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, you can only call me on Wednesdays."

"Why?"

"It's hump day, duh," Dean tried to joke.

"Alright." Castiel knew there was more to it than that. But he knew when to choose his battles. He repeated, "Alright."

"My girlfriend stays with the inlaws during the middle of the week," Dean subsequently said.

"Girlfriend," Castiel could taste the acid on his tongue. "You have a girlfriend?"

"It's not serious," Dean bit out. "At least, it hasn't been since. . . since the video store."

"Alright."

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean sighed. "I wanted to come back, y'know? I told myself I would. But I hated looking at myself in the mirror. Every day I'd look at myself and hate the asshole staring back. And it wasn't going to be far to you or Lydia. I'm just dating her for appearance's sake at this point. You're what I want. But I can't exactly tell her that. And it'd just be dodging questions if I broke it off so suddenly."

Castiel looked at Dean and his handsome profile. "I should've assumed that someone as beautiful as you were already intangled."

"I don't want her, Cas."

"You want me?"

"Of course."

"But you're still dating her?"

"Of course."

"Alright."

"Alright?" Dean looked over at him now. "Cas, I'm telling you that even though I want you. . . we can't do anything."

"I realize," Castiel said. "But you also gave me your number."

Dean winced, "I want to be, uh, friends."

"You want to be friends?"

"Is there an echo out here? Yeah."

"The last time we talked, there wasn't exactly a lot of _talking_ happening," Castiel pointed out. "In fact, I remember a distinct lack of talking happening whilst I was choking on your dick."

Dean blanched completely, twisting his head around to make sure they were still alone. "You can't just say shit like that, Cas."

"Why do you want to be friends?"

"God," Dean dropped his out cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with his toe. "Right now, I don't. You're kinda annoying."

Castiel frowned. "Alright."

"Stop looking at me like that," Dean groaned, suddenly connecting their hands. "You're so fucking cute."

"I'm getting mixed signals," Castiel said, fingertips tingling from where they where touching Dean.

"I want to be friends because. . . you're the only one I can be honest with."

"I'm the only one that knew." Knew that Dean liked men, that was. Castiel's lips thinned.

Dean nodded, lashes touching his cheek, "Even in the few minutes we've been talking here—I feel pretty liberated, dude."

"So, I'll be your confessional?" Castiel asked sarcastically. 

"No," Dean huffed, dropping their hands to run his fingers through his hair. "Goddamn. Listen, I want to be friends. I want to have someone who understands. And I want to be honest. With others. With myself. But I feel so empty now. When I'm with Lydia. Or even Sammy. They can't understand. And I'm not sure I want them to. But with you. . . I want that. I want something I'm sure you can give, Cas. Hell, I couldn't even find the courage to come back to the video store. I'm sure you don't want to deal with my mess. But it can't hurt to ask, right?"

Castiel felt a deep understanding of Dean's words. "I understand what you want, Dean. But it's not exactly fair to me. Especially when I want more."

"More?"

"I want to kiss you," Castiel said honestly. "I want everything you have with your girlfriend."

"No, you don't," Dean argued.

"I don't care if you're just using her, Dean." Castiel stressed, "I _want_ you to use me. And not the kind of using where we're just friends and I have to silently pine over you. I can't be kept an arms distance away. These past few weeks have been Hell. We connected physically that day. We kissed. We held each other. I never have sex unless I trust that person but with you. . . it was different. And now you're here but you just want to be friends? I can't do that. Especially not with you calling me and my laugh cute."

Dean sighed. "I knew it was a longshot."

"I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean pulled a new cigarette from his pocket. "Is there anything I can do to change your mind?"

Castiel shook his head. "I don't want false hope."

He pulled out a silver lighter, flicking it and kindling the end of the cigarette. "I'm serious, Cas," He said between an exhale of smoke.

"Alright," Castiel gave in, saying the first thing that came to his mind, "Break up with your girlfriend."

Dean inhaled more smoke, letting it curl out of his nose, head falling back. "And then you'll be my friend?"

"Yes," Castiel stared at his long tan neck, "But I won't be your queer little secret."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll break up with Lydia."

Oh. "Oh." What else what he supposed to say? He was entirely caught off guard.

Dean cracked an eye open, staring over at his dumbstruck face, "What?"

"I didn't think you'd follow through."

"Well, I am."

"Alright."

"It's not just about her, you get that right, Cas?" Dean took a drag of his cigarette.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not holding back on this thing between us because of her," Dean breathed smoke, "I'm holding back because I'm . . ."

"What?"

"I'm scared."

"Scared of people finding out?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "I can't be a fag, Cas. At least, not to other people."

"But you can with me?"

"You're different."

"Because you know I won't judge you," Castiel figured.

"Maybe," Dean looked away, "But also, one day, I want to be able to give you what you want."

Castiel felt like he swallowed a rock. "Really?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, "If you can white-knuckle through it with me now, I reckon some time I might be ready for that."

Happy tears sprung to his eyes, but he kept them at bay. "Well, I look forward to that."

"Me too."

"Alright, Dean," Castiel reconnected their hands, "I'll be your friend."

Dean grinned prettily. And then Castiel was being pulled into a hug. It was warm and solid, flush against Dean's chest. 

"Thank you, Cas."

Castiel breathed in Dean smell. "Of course, Dean."


	3. Written on the Pages

Dean watched Sam and Jessica kiss, holding hands across the table, leaning into each other and whispering. Jessica was a few months pregnant now—which showed with her rounded out face and dewy skin. Her long blonde hair was parted in the middle, hanging straight down her cheeks like some kind of hippy, curling naturally at the very ends over her flowery breasts. Every time she moved her arm, her large sleeve would hang up and drag across the table, making her blush and giggle at Sam. Sammy was wearing his huge coke-bottle bottom glasses, long hair pulled back in a low pony-tail, and a leather fringe vest over a long sleeve western button-down. They matched each other perfectly, stylish and cute. 

Lydia was beside him, her hand on his knee as an afterthought, the rest of her attention focused on her meal. She was still in her business attire, huge padded shoulders and pencil skirt. Her beautiful red hair was clasped back with a huge clip and a well-hidden scrunchy. 

Dean, beside the three of them, looked like a no-good grease monkey. People probably thought they picked him off the street and were giving him a free meal. With oil under his fingernails, work overalls still on, and sweaty hair—the dirty looks he was getting from their server and the surrounding patrons were definitely justified. But he hadn't known they were going out somewhere special. He just figured they were going to the roadhouse again. That was their usual hangout. But Jessica craved Italian and what a pregnant lady wanted she got. 

He forked through his pasta, twirling it, and plopping it into his mouth. He was the only one dumb enough to order something as messy as spaghetti and meatballs (Sam got a small Neoplolition pizza, Jessica got risotto, and Lydia got chicken marsala). He held the wine glass with his fist, knowing he stood out but not caring enough to change. Lydia glared fondly at him, sipping her wine delicately, nibbling on a breadstick. This wasn't a chain restaurant. It was candlelit, with a red table cloth, and menu prices that took his entire day's salary—but it wasn't like he could've skipped out. Sam paid for both his and Jessica's meals effortlessly with his big lawyer bucks. Dean was expected to do the same on his measly mechanic wage.

"I wanted to say something," Sam cleared his throat, noticing Dean's loud chewing, "As soon as your done with that bite, Dean."

Dean sighed, chewing faster, speaking through mushy noodles and marinara, "Ya' had to wait till I started eating, huh?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Lydia scolded, squeezing her hand on his knee, "We already getting enough stares."

That was true enough. He didn't bother defending himself.

He swallowed some scratchy unchewed bits, gesturing for Sam to continue, "Go ahead, Sammy."

Sam looked down, fingers intertwining fully with Jessica's.

She encouraged him, voice gentle, "It's important for him to know, honey."

An anxious pit started to gather in his stomach. He placed his utensils down, leaning back and crossing his arms. "What?"

Sam sighed, "We're moving, Dean."

Oh. He hadn't expected that. "Where?"

"California," Sam said evenly, "It's where Jessica's family is. There's a job offer there, too. And honestly, Kansas isn't exactly where I want my kid to grow up."

"It's where we grew up," He said defensively. 

Sam snorted, not holding back now, "Yeah, with a dad that abused us, who drunk himself to death, a bunch of racists next-door-neighbors, a bunch of sexists teachers, and a bunch of hicks that claim "the South will rise again" when its the Goddamn midwest—I wouldn't say hayseed America is the _best_ place to start a family."

"Rural Kansas is different," Dean settled on, adding carefully, "But we're in Kansas City now. It's not exactly Deliverance, Sammy."

"You don't realize how behind KC is until you've been to LA," Sam shook his head. "And honestly, I don't know why we ever left."

 _You left because you were coming back home_ , Dean thought bitterly. _You finally got your degree and wanted to be nearby._

Lydia chimed in, frowning at Dean, then turning her best smile onto the couple, "Well, I, for one, am very happy for you! Did you know that California has Sushi stores on nearly every corner? I read that in a magazine. That's amazing! You never get that kind of culture here."

Jessica smiled back, patting her large stomach, "After I get this baby out of me, that'll be phenomenal."

Sam laughed, pushing his glasses up his nose, the lively atmosphere finally returning, "I don't think it's _every_ corner."

"They have a Chinatown," Lydia declared, "That's where Sushi is from, right?"

"No," Jessica pushed some hair behind her ear, "Sushi is Japanese."

"Manhatten's Chinatown is the biggest in the USA," Sam said knowably, "They were having a huge celebration the last time I was in the city—red all over, huge dragons, with these floating lanterns. It was incredible."

"It was their new year, right?" Jessica commented. "The year of the snake."

"There were snakes everywhere," Sam chuckled. " _Mostly_ fake."

"We should move to New York," Lydia said with starry eyes, "It sounds even _more_ fabulous."

Dean grunted, still unsettled, "I ain't leavin' Kansas."

"Don't have a cow,” Lydia rolled her eyes, nails digging into his leg, "Stop being such a spoilsport, Dean."

Finally, he had enough, grounding out between clenched teeth, "I was born here. I'm gonna die here, Goddammit."

They stared at him, taken aback.

Sighing, he stood up, throwing his napkin down on the table forcefully. He needed to get out of here. His hostile tone had gathered the attention of the tables around them, too. And an angry-looking server was making his way over. He pulled out his wallet, tossing out a couple of Jacksons, and sliding it back into his worn back pocket. 

"Where're you going?" Lydia asked, moving to stand up.

"I need to get outta here," He said, holding up his hand for her to stop, "Hitch a ride from Sammy."

She stared at him with hurt eyes, "Dean—"

"No, I'm gonna bounce," He said simply, looking over at Sam, "That cool with you, buttmunch?"

Sam looked disappointed, but nodded, "Yeah, it's fine, Dean."

"I'll see you at home," Lydia spoke confidently but they both knew it was a question.

"Yeah," Dean replied half-heartedly.

Turning on his heel, he pushed out of the non-smoking section, unintentionally overhearing Sam's next words, "—temper just like Dads."

Dean needed to get out of here. 

  

 

He parallel-parked outside of the adult video store. It was a quarter past 8 PM and they were already closed, but the light was still on. He sighed, killing Baby's engine and stepping out into the cold air. His breath was visible, almost as thick as the smoke that curled from the cigarette between his fingers, mingling together and overcasting the already dark road. Apparently, they didn't have streetlights this far downtown. He pocketed his keys, psyching himself up, before walking up across the sidewalk.

Another few puffs of his cigarette later, he knocked on the door, waiting. 

A few seconds later, there were footsteps. 

The door opened. "We're closed. . . " Castiel trailed off when he saw Dean's face. "Dean?"

Dean felt the smoke burn down his throat, tasting like menthol and death. "Heya, Cas."

"Are you okay?" Castiel asked, touching his arm, "I thought you were going out with your brother tonight?"

Dean leaned into the touch, tension uncoiling inside him, "Had an argument. Didn't have anywhere else to go."

Castiel was clearly still concerned, "What about your other friends? Jo and Benny?"

"I wanted to see you," He admitted lowly.

Castiel's face split into a bittersweet smile, "I wanted to see you too—phone calls just aren't the same."

Dean stubbed out his cigarette, shuffling between his feet, "Are you going to invite me in?"

Castiel murmured, "Come in, Dean."

He remembered when he was young, maybe twelve or thirteen—definitely in that awkward phase where girls were still gross enough to not want to have one as a girlfriend but pretty enough to make them all question why that was the unspoken rule. There was this girl named Cassandra. The irony wasn't lost on him. She wasn't white. But Dean, even with a dad that liked to scream about an impending civil war against black people where the white people were newly oppressed, thought that Cassie was the most beautiful girl in his class. He asked her out over a snack pack. She said she'd think about it.

After school, he decided to go to her home to ask if she'd want to ride bikes and play on the street. Her neighborhood was different than his. But they'd both lived on the poorer sides of town. The only difference was that Dean's type of poor was a bunch of white rednecks. So, he cycled over to her house, knocked on the door, and waiting for her to answer. Her mother did. Until that moment, Dean hadn't realized that Cassie's parents were interracial. But he figured that it would liken his chances for them to be okay with him dating their daughter. When Cassie came to the door however, she had told him rigidly to leave. She said she wasn't allowed to talk to boys. Especially no good boys like Dean with mean fathers that threw rocks at other black men and drank with racists like Cyrus Dorian on weekends.

Thankfully, even after he got that strange sense of deja vu, Castiel didn't tell him to leave.

The video shop looked haunted without all the display lights on—trapped by the dusky evening and the emptiness of being closed. 

"Do you want a pop?"

Dean shrugged, "Yeah, if you don't mind."

Castiel went to a little mini-fridge behind the counter, announcing, "We have 7Up and Pepsi. . ."

"You like Pepsi?" Dean fake-gagged, coming over to lean on the counter, "I'm regretting our friendship, now."

"Gabriel does the grocery shopping around here," Castiel defended, handing over the Pepsi teasingly, "Besides, it's not _that_ bad."

Dean looked at the bottle and laughed disbelievingly, "Wild cherry flavor?"

"I dare you to drink it."

"Well, if you dare me to drink it, I _have_ to," He said sarcastically, still opening it and taking a small sip. "It tastes like a cherry Pepsi."

"Obviously," Castiel said, squinting as he processed the rest of what Dean had said, "What did you expect?"

"I actually expected worse. This is just mediocre."

Castiel drank the 7Up, staring at Dean's lips as he talked, "If you think my drinks are mediocre, wait till you see my hosting. . ."

Dean mantled embarrassingly.  "I'm being an awful guest, aren't I?"

"Yes, you didn't even take off your shoes before entering my establishment."

"I'm sor—" He paused, looking down at Castiel's shoes. "Are you teasing me?"

"Yes," Castiel smirked, "But only because it's fun."

Dean huffed, "How dare you, Cas. . ."

Castiel took another sip of his drink, "I guess little brothers can be annoying too."

"You have no idea," Dean muttered, pushing himself off the counter.

Castiel frowned, disquieted, "What do you mean? Is this about the argument or whatever?"

"I'm pretty sure you don't want to deal with my shit," Dean replied, coming around the counter to jump and sit closer to Castiel. "And I mean, that's part of the reason why I came _here_. Jo would fucking nag me to death. Benny would beat my ass for showing up to his house so late and bothering Andrea. And Ash? Ever since I walked in on his oily swinger nightmare, I never show up to his house unannounced."

"I'm your safe bet, huh?"

"I wanted to see you," Dean reminded, looking down, "But I also wanted an escape from my everyday bullshit."

"So, I'm an escape."

"Yeah."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Take it however you want," Dean shrugged, "But I meant it as one."

Castiel stood up, suddenly between Dean's knees, "Did you have a fight with your girlfriend?"

Dean rubbed his forehead. "This isn't really the escape I had in mind."

"Escapism is avoidance," Castiel stared at him, eyes soft yet determined, "I can give you solace, but don't use me like _that—_ I'm not just a thing to distract you from your problems. I'm your friend, Dean. I'm not going to nag you to death or whatever. But I do want to help."

"Fine," Dean bit his lip, "Sammy's moving to California."

"Okay," Castiel hesitated, "And you're upset because. . ."

"Because I gotta face the facts."

Castiel cupped his jaw in his palm, "You're not making any sense, Dean."

"Sam never wanted to be part of our family," Dean explained, leaning into the touch, "He hated this life growing up. Ran away to Stanford first chance he got. Now it's like déjà vu all over again. And I am sick and tired of chasing him. Screw him, he can do what he wants. He can abandon me, move to California, and pretend I don't even exist as far as I care."

"Dean," Castiel looked at him reproachfully, "I don't think he's abandoning you."

Dean exhaled loudly through his nose. "And this is why I didn't want your help."

"I'm not a psychiatrist," Castiel said intently, stroking his cheekbone. "I don't have some degree telling me how to support you. But if having a brother of my own is any qualification, I can say one thing—I'm almost one hundred percent certain that Sam isn't moving just to spite you. He has his own life, Dean. And if moving to California is a part of that? Then I don't believe he has to run any of it by you for approval."

"If you _were_ a shrink, I might be cussing you out by now."

"Just cussing?"

"Maybe throwing a few punches."

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"It's okay," Dean sighed, resting his head on Castiel's shoulder, "I know you're just being honest."

"How about this, pretend you're someone else," Castiel started, "And look at what you told me through another person's eyes."

"Yeah, I'd think I was some manipulative, controlling, bastard."

"I didn't intend for you to start self-loathing."

"Loathing?"

"Hating."

"Well, I don't hate myself," Dean said with a frown, "I just don't think I'm that swell of a guy."

"I think you're wonderful."

"That's only because you've had sex with me," He pushed himself off Castiel's shoulder, waggling his eyebrows.

"That certainly helps," Castiel teased.

They stared at each other in silence for a couple of seconds—Dean wondered if Castiel was thinking about the sex they had too.

Dean asked, a few seconds later, "Did you want the fight to have been with Lydia?"

Castiel sighed, "Of course, I did. You know I did. It's hard knowing you're still with her, Dean."

"I'm going to break up with her soon," Dean assured. "I just need the timing to be right."

"And when is that?"

"Sooner rather than later," Dean said, "Especially with how annoying she's being."

"Annoying?"

"Y'know how women are."

"Not really."

"Well," Dean paused, not really knowing what to say, so he bullshitted, "They nag."

"I know plenty of men who nag."

"Okay, well, Lydia's a special case, Mr. Feminine Mystique. She won't stop asking me when we're going to take things to the next step. She wants a baby. She wants to move to New York. She wants me to get a better job. She wants all these things that I can't give her. It's completely infuriating," Dean ranted, mind wandering back to his brother involuntarily, "And every time we meet up with Sam and Jess, it's like we're in competition with them. They get a pet? We need one too. They get pregnant? We need to try too. She needs to be one step ahead of everyone we know. It's infuriating."

He didn't mention that sometimes, it was him that was jealous of all the things Sam was doing before him. He just didn't want to do them with Lydia, was the problem. But that made him sound selfish. And he didn't want Castiel to think of him any more poorly than he already did. 

Castiel looked down. "So, you have a perfectly legitimate reason to break up with her and you still won't?"

Dean blundered through his usual excuses, "We're co-renting a place. It'd just be a mess."

"Okay," Castiel ceded. "I just. . . I'm getting a little tired of waiting, Dean."

His stomach rolled at the thought of Castiel giving up on him. "I'm sorry, Cas."

"It's alright."

Emboldened by Castiel's soft eyes, Dean said brazenly, "I'll break up with her by the end of the week."

"Dean," Castiel looked at him, eyes wide, "We know that's not going to happen."

"I swear, Cas," Dean tried to speak confidently, "I don't want you giving up on me."

"It's Thursday, Dean. Are you telling me that by Sunday, you'll be done with her?"

Hearing the words out loud made him tremor a little bit, but he resolved himself. "Yes."

Castiel looked at him shyly. "And you swear? Don't get my hopes up."

Dean reached out, holding Castiel's face in his hands, "If you have a warm bed for me on Sunday, then I swear to you that I will shout my devotion to you from the rooftops." 

And besides, with Sam moving across the country, who cared if he suddenly broke it off with his long term girlfriend and moved in with a man? It's not like he had to be a role model to his little brother anymore. If he's theoretically sinning by fantasizing about Castiel, he might as well go all the way and actually do the things he's thinking of. Not that he's sinning. His throat felt dry. Since entering into this strange relationship with Castiel, he was yet to figure out how moral he was acting. Cheating on Lydia? Well, that was clearly wrong. Being with a man? It was still difficult to think about. He felt bad about how he acted with Aaron. And Ceaser. And how horribly mean he'd acted in general. But that's only because he knew he was a goddam hypocrite. Was he actually engaging in something wicked? He didn't know. 

But Castiel, who was safe from those horrible thoughts, grinned. "I'll change my sheets."

"You're too good for me," Dean said sorrowfully, "You're the best person I know."

Castiel leaned forward, trying to connect their lips.

Dean swallowed, speaking right before they touched, "I don't think we should kiss."

Castiel backed away, abashed. "Okay."

Dean rubbed the corners of his mouth, "I mean. . . fuck. I didn't mean it like that. Well, I _did_. But. . ."

"It's fine," Castiel tried to reassure.

"No," Dean huffed, suddenly pausing and looking down at his pointer and middle finger—he held them together, bringing them up to his mouth to kiss, and then reaching over to touch Castiel's lips. "Is this okay?"

"Yes," Castiel said quietly. Dean's fingers caressed his lips. "But wouldn't kissing be easier?"

Dean looked down. "Easy doesn't come close."

"Okay," Castiel looped their fingers together.

"This is all I can do, Cas."

Castiel smiled, "It's okay, Dean. I understand."

And he took his free hand, kissed his fingers, and touched them gently to Dean's plush lips. 

Dean sighed into it. "Thank you."

"Of course," Castiel smiled.

And it finally felt like they were on the same page.

Now, he just needed to break up with Lydia. 

 

Breaking up with Lydia was easier said than done—especially since she was being so goddamn apologetic.

"I'm sorry I pissed you off at dinner, Dean."

He laid next to her in bed, listening to her soft voice. 

"You didn't piss me off."

It just felt easier to whisper back. Even though it was just them, the darkness of the room dimmed their voices.

She rolled onto her side, hand coming up to rest on his chest, caressing his peck and drawing little circles through his shirt and onto his skin, "It sure felt that way. You're brother thought so, too. He asked if we were fighting. . . Are we fighting? I honestly can't tell anymore."

Dean struggled to come up with something. "I don't know."

"That wasn't what I wanted to hear," She sighed, "Is it my fault?"

"I don't know if it's anyone fault," Dean said casually, "Sometimes people just start to loose what initially brought them together."

"The spark?"

 _We never had a spark_ , Dean thought. "Yeah," He said instead.

"That's such bullshit." She sat up abruptly, reaching over and switching on her bedside light. It made him wince—the stony look on her face didn't help either. "Dean, I know I'm probably not like your other girlfriends. Your pretty face doesn't make me buckle on arguments. I won't be silent on my feelings. I don't want to live in Kansas for the rest of my life, being your little homemaker wife that you bitch about when I'm not around, while you pine away jealously at the life your little brother has."

Dean looked up at her, gobsmacked. 

"Break up with me," She demanded, voice firm, "Do it, Dean."

Dean palmed his forehead. "Lyds. . ."

She shook her head, throwing the covers off her legs, "Fine. If you're too guilty to follow through, then I'm breaking up with you."

Dean sat up then, leaning back on the headboard and watching her scurry around their bedroom. He realized a second later that she was packing. "Lydia, you don't have to leave. I'm sorry. But it's 3 AM and—"

She snorted, filling up the duffle bag and setting it down on the bed, "Oh, _I'm_ not leaving. You are."

Dean barely comprehended what she was saying. "I'm leaving?"

"Yeah," She patted his bag of clothes, giving him an agitated expression, "Bye."

"I don't understand."

"Dean, you're an asshole. You act like I'm dumb because I have different opinions than you. You treat me like shit. We fight a lot. I feel like I'm a worse person when we're together. Like you turn me into someone hateful. And we're always in competition with your brother. If I don't one-up Jessica at our get-togethers, looks-wise or by bringing a better casserole, you get sulky. It's honestly a draining life," She crossed her arms, "And I figured it out as soon as you started prattling on about us not having a spark anymore. . . so save both of us the humiliation and get the fuck out of my house."

Dean picked up the bag on autopilot, slipping on his shower scandals, and pausing in the bedroom doorway.

She said impatiently, "Lock the door on your way out."

"And the rest of my stuff?"

"I'll call you Jo or Benny in a few days. You can come to pick everything up when I'm at work."

Dean couldn't believe what was happening. Everything was going so fast. Too fast. And he was a little out of breath.

"Bye, Dean," She said. 

"Lyds. . ."

"I said _bye_ ," She crossed her arms, "Don't make me say it again."

And just like that, it was over.

He walked out of the house, gobsmacked, and was utterly lost on what to do.

Castiel had said that Dean was free to stay with him. That his bed was open. But was that real? Should Dean head to Sams? That's what he used to do when a girl kicked him out. Tears spilled down his cheeks, mostly in shock, some heartbreak mixed in. He hadn't loved Lydia. Really, he hadn't even liked her. But he'd resolved himself to a life with her in it. A white picket fence, kids, grilling perfectly cut steaks. And then things happened so damn fast. He hadn't really realized that it was over.

Sitting in the Impala, Dean sighed. 

Like usual, someone left him. Sam, his mom, his dad, Lisa, Lydia. . . and maybe it wasn't them. Maybe it was _him_.

Castiel would probably be next in that lineup. Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat.

Where in the fuck was he supposed to go?

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: description of porn video, f/m, f/f/m, a forced enema, a gangbang, and other (definitely dubcon) stuff that's not d/c. Some problematic language/slurs referring to LGBTQ+ people (queer isn't used nicely, "dyke" and "fag" are used liberally, "transvestite" is also used incorrectly, and Dean is kinda an internalized homophobe) and a few mentions of period typical racism and sexism. Also, Cas doesn't exactly ask if it's okay for him to start jackin' it or even if he can watch Dean in the beginning. And he kinda manipulates Dean into giving him a handjob. So. . . that's kinda sketch. But y'know—plot. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please comment and leave a kudos if you liked it!


End file.
